


Do Not Expect to Just Take and Hold

by darthmonet



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Platonic Relationships, uhhhh brief violence mention ?? it's more injury than anything else, wigfrid needs some supervision, wurt is babie and she's super fun to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22625443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthmonet/pseuds/darthmonet
Summary: inspired by some conversations I had in a group chat earlier todayMaxwell embracing those Uncle Instincts while also denying that he is going sentimental
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71





	Do Not Expect to Just Take and Hold

**Author's Note:**

> title's from the poem 'A Friend' by Gillain Jones
> 
> _do not expect to just take and hold / give friendship back, it is pure gold._

Maxwell didn’t consider himself to be an overly sympathetic person. Sure, he’d shacked up with the other survivors to further his own survival attempts, and he may have found himself warming up to them more than he’d first expected, but that didn’t mean he was becoming sentimental.

The (former) King of Shadows was not going soft. The very idea of it was unthinkable, _laughable_!

It started when Wigfrid had come back bloodied and beaten down from her latest battle. She’d set her sights on a pack of hounds this time, if the vicious bites on her arms were anything to go by, and she was damn lucky to still be alive and kicking. Maxwell had bandaged her wounds while the others worked tirelessly to make more healing salve, chastising her all the while.

"Like Fenrir freed fröm his chains, that beast was lööking för battle!"

"It’s not the dogs’ intentions I’m worried about. One of these days you’ll take on an opponent out of your league, and what then?"

"...Unimpörtant, för there is nö föe a true warriör cannöt def-"

"You haven’t been listening to a word I said!"

That was just a one-off, surely? An act done not out of kindness, but of **necessity**. Wigfrid was a feisty warrior even at her weakest, it would have been stupid to let her die from a measly dog bite.

But then along came Wurt, tugging at his suit jacket and asking if he’d play Merm Kingdoms with her.

"No. Go and ask Wendy."

"Sad girl too sad. Not good leader."

"Webber, then. He’s a cheerful boy."

"Webby with many-leg friends. Busy."

A beat of silence.

"So you play, florp?"

"I’ve _already said no_. Go and find a book to entertain yourself with until Webber gets back."

But instead of leaving, as he’d assumed she would, Wurt just stood there. Her tiny scaled fist still clenched in his jacket as she gave him the best attempt at puppy-dog eyes he’d ever seen from a Merm.

"Thought… scale-less was nice..."

"Oh, come now, there’s no need to upset yourself over this."

"Wurt all alone. Was **never** alone in swamp, florp."

"Alright! Alright, I’ll play, but _only until_ one of your other friends returns."

Maxwell preferred not to dwell on how much time he’d spent helping Wurt govern her kingdom. She was a very headstrong little leader of this imaginary Merm world, even going so far as to scratch him crude little diagrams in the dirt to show just how big her swamp was getting with each new decision made (usually winning wars with the nearby enemy Pig Kingdom). And as much as he hated to admit it, it had been **fun**.

Such childlike innocence was one of the first things this unforgiving world sought to tear apart and destroy, and yet here it was being displayed in all its glory by a creature he was still surprised could speak.

And maybe, in return for seeing such a rare and beautiful thing, he’d allowed some of his own humanity to shine through. Not innocence, for he was far too old for such a silly thing, but sentiment. The knowledge that these people, as much as they may drive him crazy sometimes, meant something to him.

So when Webber came to him the following night, upset by nightmares and thoughts of what unspeakable horrors lurked just beyond the fire’s glow, Maxwell didn’t lie to himself any more. He was no longer a king lording over nameless pawn pieces. These were his allies, his friends. **His family**.

~~What a strange thought.~~

The spider child was curled up on his lap, wrapped in the same suit blazer Wurt had been tugging on the day before. It wasn’t the best makeshift blanket in the world, but it was all he had to offer, and the mild autumn nights meant that neither of them would freeze out here. 

They’d talked for ages, Maxwell boring him with details of the Clockwork Rook’s inner mechanisms and the exact migratory flight patterns of the snowbird, anything to distract him from the memories of the nightmare. Webber, in turn, had given Maxwell more information on spiders than he’d ever cared to know. Their hierarchies, their fighting style, the way they really _weren’t so bad once you got to know them-_

And at long last, midway through Maxwell's explanation of how the marble trees had been formed, Webber’s eyes had slipped closed and his breath had evened out. He was asleep, this time hopefully without any unpleasant dreams plaguing him.

Okay, so maybe Maxwell _was_ going soft. Maybe, somewhere along this journey, he’d become sentimental and started to care.

But as he looked down at Webber’s tiny body cradled in his suit jacket, the child falling asleep in his arms in the purest expression of trust one could give, he realised maybe that wasn’t so bad after all.


End file.
